Spirits of the Abyss
by bamftastik
Summary: The Divine isn't the only spirit watching as the Inquisitor's party makes its way through the Fade. When Alistair makes his choice, he finds that he isn't alone.


_They should not be here._ The air shimmered when they moved – no, not air. There was no air in the Fade. There was only nothing, only this. And yet here they were – mortals, strangers – making their way through the void. It reshaped itself around them, but these were not dreamers. They were not only shaping the Fade, but changing it.

They were changing _her_. She had been a woman, once. It was a detail she had forgotten, unimportant until only a moment ago. All around her, spirits were taking shape, drifting in their wake, half-formed memories whispering at their heels. Was that what she was – a memory? Did she belong to one of them?

Six, they were: a proud commander of magics whose steely gaze could not disguise the fearful sweat upon her brow; a glib-tongued dwarf now strangely silent; a man of two faces, his armor heavy with lies. One among them shone brighter than the rest, glowing with the light of the broken sky. This place had touched her as she had touched it. _They_ had been touched by her, too. They followed her even here, where no living man or woman should tread. It was familiar, the weight she carried, the destiny that dogged her steps. There was a touch of it on the man at her side, but his light was dimmer, tarnished. A leader once, but different now. One who knows the price.

She had been like them, once. She, too, had learned the price. Because she had paid it.

And she felt it now, felt the pieces sliding into place. She had been a woman. She had been a leader, reluctant at first, but all too familiar with the burden of necessity. And, in the end, she had died. It hadn't hurt. She could remember embers on the breeze, the sudden stillness settling around her, the taste of ash on her final breath. But that breath had been choked. Even in victory, there had been tears in her eyes.

Could spirits see ghosts? For that's what she was, she knew that now. And yet he had come to haunt her.

The one they called the Inquisitor and the one they called Hawke were arguing. He put himself between them, his words humming on the air, throbbing through her. She knew his voice, knew his face. _Alistair._

So close that she could touch him. A wisp stretched out before her, a shadow of a hand, familiar enough to give her pause. _Her_ hand. She remembered this, the feel of her hand in his, his smile as he pressed those fingers to his lips. Again, she reached for him, but he turned away, his eyes passing through her unseeing.

They were moving on. What could she do but follow? Other spirits were making themselves known, putting themselves in their path, some to help and others to hurt. Would he know her, she wondered. There was a coldness to him that had not been there before, an anger that years of heavy resignation could not quite dim. She had known only a whisper of it, had seen it flare on the night she told him of her decision.

Morrigan had left them. He'd wanted to know why, had looked so wounded when she refused to tell him. And then had come the anger. He would lead the forces at the gate, she told him. She would face the archdemon alone. She could tell him that she needed him to hold the city, but they both knew it was a lie. The truth was she didn't trust him not to take the blade from her in those final moments, that she didn't trust herself not to give it to him.

Maker, she had been so afraid.

And the anger had flared, smoldering behind his eyes. Anger, and despair. He didn't try to argue with her, knew there was no use. He had only taken a deep and shaking breath, pulling her into his arms. That night she had traded him for the world, but still he had held her, watching over her as she slept, waking her with breakfast and a hollow smile on the day that she would die.

Yet they were both here, both lost, both shadows. More spirits were pressing in around them, growing stronger, taking shape. Nightmare, too, was stirring. It called out to them each in turn and when it came to Alistair, it spoke of _her_. He did not heed it, of course. He was stronger than that. But just for a moment, his eyes found hers. Just for a moment, he hesitated.

Could he know that she was here? The others could not see her and nor could he. But there was a certainty to his step now, a familiar rhythm in the swing of his sword, a smirk tugging at his lips with each demon he felled. And when Nightmare swelled before him, she could swear he smiled straight at her.

Then she was standing beside him again, just as she had been, fighting together, two Grey Wardens facing the nightmare at the end of all things. Because it _was_ the end. She knew it in the same moment that he did, as the beast rose to cut off their escape. If he were to live, he would flee through the rift. He would leave her behind, just as she had left him.

The others rushed ahead, but Alistair stopped. Again he seemed to see her, realization giving way to relief. He bid the others leave. He would cover their escape. But he didn't watch them go. His eyes remained locked to hers, his hand reaching out to rest against her cheek.

But she was still dead. As his fingertips brushed through the haze of her, he chuckled. "Well, that's inconvenient. But just… give me a minute." His eyes roamed up the length of the beast. "Three, at the most."

Even in the face of death, he had always been able to make her laugh. It was good to know that he still could. And suddenly she was crying again.

"Oh, come on. I'm new to this whole self-sacrifice thing. Not all of us can make it look so easy, you know."

She laughed, despite herself, the sound echoing through the void.

Alistair's brows drew low, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned close. "See? Now, _that's_ worth dying for."


End file.
